Innocence Lost
by Phen82
Summary: The final battle between Harry and Voldemort. Harry's POV. Read and Review


Dawn comes slowly and the early rays shine down on the figures gathered in the field. We watch the other side assembling, all the while, each side is holding a silent truce until the battle begins. We wait with baited breath as Voldemort casts his eyes across us. I can feel the fear which it invokes in those around me.  
  
He fires the first curse early. I see Ron fall to the ground, his vacant eyes staring up at me. There are screams from those around me as the battle begins in earnest. All around me, people are fighting, and people are falling. And although their screams ring in my ears, they can do nothing to drown out the constant echoes of my heart beating heavily against my chest, as I walk forward through the battling. I can see that we are losing. There are too many of them.  
  
As the figures in masks approach me I cast without thought. Without remorse. Green light flittering out of my wand, and I watch with a morbid satisfaction as the figures fall. They are nameless. Faceless. I hold no remorse because I do not recognise them. Until I glance over at one of the fallen. His mask has fallen away and I gasp. I used to go to school with this boy.  
  
A boy. Not a man, but a boy! He shouldn't be here. He is too young! I am too young! I tear my eyes away from the pale, blonde boy and feel a surge of anger curse through my veins. It's Voldemort's fault, I think to myself. He did this to us. He must pay.  
  
I make my way through the crowds, avoiding curses by mere instinct, though not paying attention to anything except for the target of my wrath. His red eyes stare maliciously at me as I approach and I can see his face turned up into a disfigured grin. I grin too, though I don't allow him to see on my cool exterior. He doesn't realise that I have an advantage. He doesn't know how to kill me, but I know how to kill him. If he tries to kill me he will fail. That is what made me who I am today. The boy who lived.  
  
I stop level with him. There is only two feet of ground separating us now. I drop to my knees and bow. His grin widens. I feel the corners of my mouth wishing to reciprocate, but stifle the impulse. I can't let him know.  
  
"So you have finally come to your senses then?" he exclaims malevolently.  
  
I nod slightly as he approaches. He comes close and raises his wand, but I am too quick for him, and he is foolish. He underestimated me. He didn't think that I could trap him. I quickly pounce on him, putting my hands around his neck.  
  
This is the reason that I know we will win. I have this advantage. The advantage of knowledge. The prophecy runs through my head, repeating the same line.  
  
"One must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives"  
  
To kill him with a wand would force the curse to backfire on me, the way it backfired on him when I was only a baby. I do not think about my actions as I close my fingers around the thick flesh. I think about the people who are now lost because of this man. Oh yes, he is still a man. I can feel his pulse under my fingers as I crush them into his throat.  
  
I think about my parents, who died trying to protect me when I was just a baby. I think about Sirius, who died at the hand of one of his lackies, of my fifth year when he fell through the veil after being cursed by Bellatrix. I think about Ron, who had only just gotten married, but was now lying lifeless in the field, unable to reap the benefits of the life that he has now been denied. And I think about the blonde figure.  
  
I don't think about him because I have any emotional attachment. I think about him because he is yet another child, fighting a war that was started by the man in my grasp, who I might have grown to like if the man under my fingers had never existed. I can feel Voldemort's pulse slowing. His struggles have stopped hurting me now, though I wasn't paying attention to the injuries he inflicted. I can feel the blood pouring down my face from cuts. Who would have thought that this beast had finger nails?  
  
As I feel the last of his life ebbing away, his body becoming limp under my own, I gaze around the battle field. Scattered all around are bodies. My own side mingling with the black figures in masks. There are a few left standing, still fighting. Though the numbers have evened out now. I can see large flashes of white pouring out from one side of the battle field. At least Dumbledore is still alive. The man beneath me is now lying still. I can feel no pulse beneath my fingers now. But I still hold his neck in a death grip. I can't bring myself to let go. I need to know he is finally gone. That he won't ever come back.  
  
I feel tears welling behind my eyes. I don't know where they came from. I haven't cried for years. I didn't think I could anymore. I must be tired. I will myself to stop crying. Crying is for the weak. I am not weak. That's what they drilled into me from the time I was at school. I am the hero. I am the saviour. What a load of crap. I don't feel like a saviour at the moment. I feel like a madman. Gripping onto this corpse for dear life.  
  
I can now feel the searing pain in my forehead. I feel bile creeping up my throat, but I do not let go. I can't bring myself to let go. I look down at my hands. When did the blood get there? These hands were white once, but now they are coated in red. I look up again. The fighting has stopped. The black figures that remain standing are now being tied together by the few from our side that remain. I look back at the figure beneath me. His face is blue. His eyes are vacant. I gasp.  
  
His eyes are green. Like mine. They aren't red after all. Maybe it was the transformations he went through that made them look red? Maybe it was just the evil that coursed through his veins?  
  
But what made him evil? A small voice at the back of my head asks softly.  
  
He killed people. He murdered in cold blood. I answer.  
  
So did you, it replied.  
  
No, that was different I tell myself. He was evil.  
  
So are you, the voice says.  
  
I shake my head, willing these thoughts to leave me. I am still holding the corpse. My hands are still red with blood. How did the blood get there? I was using a wand before, and there is no blood from the corpse beneath me.  
  
You're a murderer the voice taunts. Murderer, Murderer!  
  
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up and see blue eyes staring down at me. There's something wrong though. There's no twinkle.  
  
"Let go Harry" he says gently.  
  
I stare back down at my hands, but don't move.  
  
"He's gone Harry. He's not coming back. Let go" his voice drifts into my conscious and I sigh before letting my hands fall.  
  
He lifts me and I stand shakily. I close my eyes to stem the tide of nausea and wave of dizziness that creeps over me. When I open my eyes I see a group of people crowded around me. They are all staring. I am used to staring. People stare at my scar all the time. The sign that I'm a marked man. Innocent, but marked.  
  
They don't stop staring at me. I begin to get impatient.  
  
"What?" I demand. "What is it?"  
  
Hermione steps forward and somewhere in the back of my head I feel a small amount of relief at seeing her there. At least one of my friends is still alive.  
  
"Harry, your scar" she said softly, looking up at me.  
  
"What about it?" I ask impatiently.  
  
"It's gone" she says, her voice barely above a whisper.  
  
"What?" I exclaim, walking over to a puddle and staring at the murky reflection.  
  
My forehead is smooth. There is no trace of the scar that has marked me for so many years. I remember the pain I felt in my scar when Voldemort died. I broke the connection. The scar is gone now.  
  
And so is your innocence. The voice in the back of my head states.  
  
I start to laugh. They are staring at me again. But this time for a different reason. A man walks over, his dark robes billowing behind him.  
  
"Come on Potter" he says, though his voice is now without its usual malice. It seems almost kind for him. "You need to get away from this place"  
  
I let him lead me away, following Dumbledore, who had a hand on Hermione's shoulder, leading her away also. I am still laughing, though I don't fully understand why I am laughing. I feel that if I stop, that I will cry. I don't want to cry. Crying is for the weak. I am not weak. 


End file.
